It sounded like what Talma had said.
‘The Rom have kept the secrets of our Egyptian ancestors for centuries,’ Stefan said. ‘Yet we are mere children in the ancient arts.’
Well, their Egyptian connection seemed dubious to me – their very name suggested Romania as a more probable homeland – but then again it was a dusky and colourful group, of vests and shawls and scarves and jewellery, including an ankh here and a figurine of dog-headed Anubis there. Their women might not be Cleopatra, but they certainly had an alluring beauty. What lovemaking secrets might they know? I pondered that question for some moments. I am, after all, a scientist.
‘Adieu, my new friends,’ Smith said. He gave Stefan a purse. ‘Here is payment to conduct Monsieur Gage and the talisman he doesn’t have to safety in Toulon. He will escape detection in your slow wagons. Agreed?’
The gypsy regarded the money, flipped and caught it, and laughed. ‘For this much I would take him to Constantinople! But for a man pursued, I would also take him for free.’
The Englishman bowed. ‘I believe you would, but accept the Crown’s generosity.’
Going with the gypsies would separate me from Talma until we reached Toulon, but I reasoned this would be safer for my friend as well as me. He’d worry, but then he always worried.
‘Gage, we will meet again,’ Smith said. ‘Keep my ring on your finger; the frogs won’t recognise it – I kept it out of sight in prison. In the meantime, keep your wits about you and remember how quickly idealism can turn to tyranny and liberators can become dictators. You may find yourself, eventually, on your mother country’s side.’ Then he melted into the trees as quietly as he’d come, an apparition no one would believe I’d encountered.
Meet again? Not if I had anything to say about it. I didn’t dream how Smith would eventually re-enter my life, a thousand miles from where we stood. I was simply relieved the fugitive was gone.
‘And now we feast,’ said Stefan.
The term ‘feast’ was an exaggeration, but the camp did serve us a rich stew, sopped with thick and heavy bread. I felt safe amid these strange nomads, if a little astonished at their ready hospitality. They seemed to want nothing from me but my company. I was curious if they might really know anything about what was in the sole of my boot.
‘Stefan, I’m not admitting that Smith was right about this pendant. But if some such trinket did exist, what about it would make men so covetous?’
He smiled. ‘It would not be the necklace itself, but the fact that it is some kind of clue.’
‘A clue to what?’
The gypsy shrugged. ‘All I know are old stories. The standard tale is that ancient Egyptians at the dawn of civilisation caged a power that they deemed dangerous until men had the intellectual and moral quality to correctly harness it, but left a key in the form of a neckpiece. Alexander the Great reputedly received this when he made his pilgrimage to the desert oasis of Siwah, where he was declared a son of Amon and Zeus before his march into Persia. He subsequently conquered the known world. How did he accomplish so much so quickly? Then he died a young man in Babylon. Of disease? Or murder? The rumour is that Alexander’s general, Ptolemy, took the key back to Egypt, hoping to unlock great powers, but he couldn’t understand what the token meant. Cleopatra, Ptolemy’s descendant, took it with her when she accompanied Caesar to Rome. Then Caesar was assassinated too! On it goes through history, great men grasping and coming to their doom. Kings, popes, and sultans began to believe it cursed, even as wizards and sorcerers believed it could unlock great secrets. Yet none remembered anymore how to use it. Was it a key to good or to evil? The Catholic Church takes it to Jerusalem during the Crusades, again in futile quest. The Knights Templar become its custodians, hiding it first in Rhodes, then in Malta. There are confusing quests for a holy grail, obscuring the truth of what was sought. For centuries the medallion lay forgotten until someone recognised its significance. Now perhaps it has come to Paris… and then walked into our camp. Of course, this you have denied.’
I didn’t like this medallion bringing death to all. ‘You really think an ordinary man like me could stumble across the same key?’
‘I’ve pawned a hundred pieces of the True Cross and scores of fingers and teeth of the great saints. Who is to say what is real and what is false? Just be aware that some men are in earnest about this trinket you claim not to carry.’
‘Maybe Smith is right. Supposing I had it, I should throw it away. Or give it to you.’
‘Not me!’ He looked alarmed. ‘I’m not in a position to use or understand it. If the stories are true, the medallion will only make sense in Egypt where it was crafted. Besides, it brings bad luck to the wrong man.’
‘I can testify to that,’ I confessed gloomily. A beating, murder, escapes, a holdup… ‘Yet a savant like Franklin would say it’s all superstitious nonsense.’
‘Or maybe he would use your new science to investigate it.’
I was impressed with Stefan’s seeming lack of greed, particularly since his tales had helped fuel my own avarice. Too many other parties wanted this medallion, or wanted it buried: Silano, the bandits, the French expedition, the English, and this mysterious Egyptian Rite. This suggested it was so valuable that I should be determined to keep it until I could either unload it at a profit or figure out what the devil it was for. That meant going on to Egypt. And, meanwhile, watching my back.
I glanced at Sarylla. ‘Could your lass, here, tell my fortune?’
‘She is a mistress of the Tarot.’ He snapped his fingers, and she fetched her deck of mystic cards.
I’d seen the symbols before, and the illustrations of death and the devil remained disturbing. In silence she dealt some before the fire, considered, and turned some others: swords, lovers, cups, the magician. She looked puzzled, making no forecast. Finally she held one up.
It was the fool, or jester. ‘He is the one.’
Well, I had it coming, didn’t I? ‘That’s me?’
She nodded. ‘And the one you seek.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The cards say you will learn what I mean when you get where you must go. You are the fool who must find the fool, becoming wise to find wisdom. You are a seeker who must find the first to seek. Beyond that, it is better you don’t know.’ And she’d say nothing more. That’s the knack of prophecy, isn’t it: to be vague as a fine-written contract? I had more wine.
It was well past midnight when we heard the tread of big horses. ‘French cavalry!’ a gypsy sentry hissed.
I could hear their clink and rattle, branches snapping under the hooves. All but one lamp was extinguished and all but Stefan melted toward their wagons. Sarylla took my hand.
‘We must get these clothes off you so you can pretend to be Rom,’ she whispered.
‘You have a disguise for me?’
‘Your skin.’
Well, there was an idea. And better Sarylla than Temple Prison. She took me by the hand and we crept into a vardo, her lithe fingers helping me shed my stained clothing. Hers slipped off as well, her form luminescent in the dim light. What a day! I lay in one of the wagons next to her warm and silken body, listening to Stefan murmur with a lieutenant of cavalry. I heard the words ‘Sidney Smith,’ there were growled threats, and then much tramping about as wagon doors were jerked open. When ours had its turn, we looked up in feigned sleepiness and Sarylla let our blanket slip off her breasts. You can trust they took a good long look, but not at me.